Bee, Bowl, Box, Boat

Casey Fitzsimons

our dreams gestate

like mutant bees ...

—Carol Wade Lundberg

I.

I brought down the small
glass Pyrex dish, upended it
over the fuzzy bee nosing
around in coffee grounds
on the counter, the bee
who seemed to take no notice of it
or me. Sliding
a postcard, a thin magazine reply-card,

under it, under him,
I righted the bowl, the bee
clinging to the card upside down.
I shook him
into the bowl, covered it with plastic wrap

as he hummed and nibbled, set it
in the Lucite box.

II.

To use the box I’d needed to
take out the boat
that Judy gave me, the boat
of newspaper and muslin and string

that’s not a model of any boat

but a symbol for a vessel
afloat on some invisible
dream-sea. My house is full
of dust and airborne talc. That’s why

I’d bought the box—to protect the boat.

III.

I thought the bee might work his way

over the lip of the bowl, squeeze

under the plastic wrap and out
and would puzzle

about his presence

in the clear box from

which there was surely
no escape, but a view.

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